“Now, Bonnie May,” he began, when they were alone, “I want you to help me as far as you can. Who took you to the theatre this afternoon?” “I went with Miss Barry.” “Good. Who is Miss Barry?” “Miss Florence Barry. You don’t mean to say you don’t know who she is?” “I never heard of her.” “She’s an actress. She’s very well known, too.” “Very well. How did she happen to take you? How did you happen to be with her?” “I’ve always been with her. She’s all I’ve got.” “We’re getting along nicely. You’re related to her, I suppose?” “I couldn’t say. It’s possible.” Baron frowned. “Your mother is dead?” he asked. She gazed at him with a gathering cloud in her eyes--a look that was eloquent of secret sorrow and beseechment. But she made no response in words. Baron felt the pangs of swift remorse. “I suppose Miss Barry will have to do,” he said, with an attempt at kindly brusqueness. Then--“Can you tell me her address?” “I don’t suppose she has any. We’ve been doing one-night stands quite a long time.” “But she must belong some place--and you, too. Where have you been stopping?” “We only got here yesterday. I see you don’t quite understand. We’ve just been moving from place to place all the time.” Baron pondered. “Have you always lived in hotels, in one town or another?” he finally asked. “Hotels--and theatres and rooming-houses, and trains and even wagons and carriages. Every kind of place.” “I see. Well, where did you stop last night?” “We had a room somewhere. I really couldn’t tell you where. It was the meanest kind of a place--empty and cold--quite a distance from the theatre. It was in a long row of houses, built one up against another, miles and miles long, with cheap, little old stores or shops down-stairs, and sometimes rooms above that you could rent. We were just getting ready to look for an engagement, you know, and we were broke. We couldn’t afford to go to a nice place.” The fine show of bravery was beginning to pass. She felt that she was being questioned unsympathetically. Baron, too, realized that his questions must seem to lack friendliness. The waiter brought chocolate and coffee, and Baron dropped sugar into his cup, thoughtfully watching the little bubbles that arose. Then, much to Bonnie May’s surprise, and not a little to her relief, he laughed softly. “What is it?” she asked eagerly. “Oh, nothing.” “I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” was Bonnie May’s chilling rejoinder. She began to sip her chocolate with impressive elegance.